


Investigations

by Gwyn_Paige



Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Diary/Journal, Libraries, M/M, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Paladins, Pre-Relationship, Research
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Our heroes scour the Archives and Jon's library, and begin to piece things together.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936486
Comments: 42
Kudos: 122





	Investigations

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: Misterghostfrog over on tumblr drew this [absolutely beautiful](https://misterghostfrog.tumblr.com/post/641880771849846784/image-id-a-drawing-of-martin-blackwood-from-the) fanart of Martin from this series!! Please go check out his work!!
> 
> This fic is part of my ongoing Paladin Martin/Angel Jon series. I'd recommend reading the rest of this series before jumping into this fic.
> 
> This chapter was super fun to write, so I can only hope it's equally fun to read. Enjoy!
> 
> Content warnings for chapter one: brief, non-detailed allusions to loss of bodily autonomy and possession; brief descriptions of paranoia, the feeling of being watched, and loss of sanity.

The Capitol’s Royal Archives were housed at the base of a severe-looking building of dark stone, which rose out of the ground as though it were a massive spike that had once, long ago, been hammered into the earth by an impossibly large hand. Several tall columns stood at its blocky entranceway, cloistering two doors that were just as tall, and just as imposing. As one craned their neck upwards, they could catch sight of the high arches of the Archives’ domed ceiling, and beyond that, the tower that rose, leeringly, above the entire structure.

It was at the top of that tower that Lord Elias Bouchard lived.

There were, of course, rumors about the place, and the man who lived at its apex. Some said the Archives were haunted, though no proof of this had ever been found, and the scholars who frequented its dark and dusty corners would be the first to deny these ridiculous tales. More believable were claims of magical goings-on within the building’s walls. It was no secret that the building had a history as dark as its stone, and though its specifics were long-forgotten, it was plain that something with angelic influence had touched the place more than once. The sense of dusty, leftover angelic power pervaded the place like a bad smell.

The rumors about Lord Bouchard himself, on the other hand, were more than plausible, and largely true. A very rich man (of new money, it was to be noted), who several decades ago had inherited the Archives from its previous curator, an equally rich, if much older man by the name of Lord Wright. Lord Bouchard was as eccentric as he was private, and it was rare for anyone to see him descend his tower and walk the Capitol streets amongst the commonfolk. More often than not, the only thing seen entering or leaving his offices would be neatly-penned, commanding letters.

Lord Bouchard was not known to be generous with his money, but the Royal Archives, at least, were something he offered freely. The largest collection of records in the kingdom, scholars and historians and interested laypeople alike would flock there to spend hours amongst the dimly-lit stacks, perusing at their leisure. Nothing was allowed to be taken out of the Archives, of course, and delicate materials could not be handled by the untrained, but everything within its walls could be looked at by anyone curious enough to venture in.

Sasha, for one, was plenty curious.

However foreboding the building’s facade was, the interior appealed to her right away. Though Tim complained about the dusty, grimy air of the place, Sasha paid it no mind. She didn’t care that the place was cramped, dirty, and less than beautiful; she was at once taken by the smell of aging parchment and ink, by the stacks of yellowed pages that lined each thin hallway, by the promise of discovery that lay around every corner.

The Archives were impeccably organized but also immense, and Sasha and Tim spent the better part of an hour just looking for the proper section. There was no one else around, and no sound was to be heard aside from their own footsteps, the echoes of which seemed to be immediately swallowed up by the masses of silent, waiting paper.

In time, with Sasha’s guidance, they came upon the section labeled, in neat print on a card stuck to one of the shelves, “Mythical, cryptic, exotic, extinct, or otherwise unusual animalia.”

“So . . .” Tim said, running a hand along the bundles of papers and parchment, squinting at their tiny labels. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” Sasha said. “Anything to do with what we experienced at the forest, I suppose.”

“Huge, terrifying cats trying to kill people?”

“Yep,” Sasha said, nodding. “That sort of thing.”

They set about their work with as much diligence as they could muster, faced with piles of documents that the two of them could never hope to read in their entirety. Sasha had to stop herself from skimming through texts that were obviously irrelevant, no matter how fascinating they seemed; she was here for a purpose. Follow the thread, she reminded herself, pressing her fingers to the tattoo of a winding arrow on her shoulder.

It was perhaps another hour or so before either of them spoke again.

“Eureka!”

In the silence of the stacks, Tim’s voice made her jump, and the book she’d been skimming fell from her hands and clattered, noisily, to the stone floor.

“ _Warn_ me next time,” she said, half-amused, as she retrieved it.

_“Sorry,”_ Tim whispered, venturing over from the other end of the section. “I got over-excited. I think I finally found something.”

He showed her a bound collection of papers, crudely printed in a very old-fashioned style. On the first page, the words “A Series of Field Accounts of Wildlife in the Western Forest and the Surrounding Region” were printed in the center, in very small text, and a few lines down, in the same small font, “Written & Compiled By C.H. Jackson, Ecologist & Zoologist,” and then, even further down, in the same style, “Years 4,087 to 4,089.”

“This is . . . old,” Sasha said, staring at the dates. She reached over to finger one of the dry, yellowed pages. Over five hundred years, she thought. How long had it been sitting here, in this dusty, dark place, waiting for someone to find it?

“Yeah, I was about to skim right over it. But look at the title,” Tim said. “I saw that and figured, that’s exactly the area we’re talking about, right? Maybe there’s something here. And lo and behold—”

He flipped to a page he’d been holding with his thumb, and held it out for Sasha to read. At first, it seemed to be just a particularly dry, old-fashioned record of the wildlife C.H. Jackson had seen that week. But then an entry caught her eye:

_3rd of 8th moon, 4,087:_

_Forest perimeter, mid-afternoon: Saw large shape in trees. Assumed fog or shadow from cloud, until saw movement similar to that of living creature. Rose up on legs(?) or appendages, four visible. Tail also visible: long, bushy. Maw(?) shaped like that of a wolf. Appeared to have fur. Moved as though to stand, then turned deeper into forest and left sight. Color not discernible. Species not discernible. Suspect genus canis._

Sasha glanced up at Tim, a question on her lips, but Tim just said, “Keep reading.”

_Further notes on above encounter, 5th of 8th moon, 4,087:_

_Though I earlier classified this creature as canis, upon further research I am hesitant to even classify it as animalia. Upon consulting with colleagues, I have found that similar accounts made by other zoologists have determined that such a large creature is not ordinarily found in this area of the continent, and it is highly unlikely that it could be related to the much smaller wolf and dog species._

_I am not one for unfounded speculation. However, having so little evidence, I can only extrapolate theories as to what this creature may be. It is my working theory, based on my own supplemental research and that of my colleagues, that the creature described above is of angelic nature, specifically of the Angel of the Hunt. It is possible it is a manifestation of the angel itself. Whether this theory proves true or not, it cannot be classified as animalia, and so falls outside of my purview and expertise. Though I shall not remove this entry for reasons of posterity and transparency, as a field account of wildlife the above entry should be disregarded._

Sasha let the book fall limply back into Tim’s hands. “Goodness,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” said Tim. “I mean, that’s—that’s exactly what we saw, Sasha. You remember that huge shape in the woods? Good old C.H. Jackson here described it to a T, five hundred years ago.” He looked up at her giddily, but his face fell when he saw her expression. “Sash?”

Sasha swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “The . . . Angel of the Hunt, he said.”

“Er, yeah,” Tim said, plainly confused. “It makes sense, right? I mean, it was shaped like a wolf, and its buddies were huge wolves and cats, and they definitely looked like they were hunting us—”

“Tim,” Sasha said. Her voice was quiet, but her tone made Tim stop short. “There isn’t an Angel of the Hunt. There . . . there never has been. I’ve never seen a shrine for it, or a paladin who’s sworn an oath to it, or any mention of an Angel of the Hunt, anywhere.”

Tim frowned. “Well, I mean,” he held up the book, “this says there is one, right in here. So, unless this one ecologist, specifically, just up and went mad one day, then—”

“He didn’t.”

_“Ah!”_

Sasha and Tim both cried out in unison at the new voice that had suddenly come from behind them. They spun around, and saw, at the end of the thin hallway of shelves, a figure, half-covered in shadows.

“I—what?” Sasha said, her voice gone high and nervous.

“Your ecologist,” said the figure. Their voice was mild and calm, and Sasha relaxed, slightly. “He’s not mad. Well, wasn’t. He’s long dead now. And I really couldn’t tell you if the dead are any more or less sane than we are.”

The figure took a step closer to them, into the light that barely filtered through the tiny, dirty windows of the Archives. He appeared to be a man, clothed in dark scholars’ wear, with long, black hair that was tied back from his face into a messy ponytail. Sasha could just about make out the outlines of markings along his neck, but couldn’t discern their shape.

“What . . .” Tim shook his head, and started over. “Who are you?”

The man smirked. “Gerard,” he said, holding out a hand, and Sasha could see that it was covered in dozens of small, black eyes. “But you can call me Gerry.”

* * *

Martin did appreciate the stack of hand-selected books Jon had given him, but he relished any chance to explore the shelves of Jon’s library. It was always a stimulating and fascinating experience. Whatever categorization system Jon used was incomprehensible to Martin, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to find a handwritten personal journal shelved next to a detailed manual on how to build a wagon wheel.

As thrilling as it was for exploration, however, the system was less conducive to focused research. While Jon was uncannily adept at finding precisely the sort of texts they were looking for (and, if he really wished to, could summon them with a thought instead of getting up to retrieve them himself, the lazy angel), Martin would waste hours at a time slogging through piles of texts only to come up with nothing. Jon did his best to help, but he seemed unable to articulate to Martin _how_ to find relevant texts, and could only point him in the vaguest of directions.

“It’s—it’s like trying to explain where to find pieces of glass in the sand,” Jon had told him. “I can’t _explain_ to you how to find them, you just have to know the difference.”

“ _Now_ who’s the poet,” Martin had said with a laugh, and Jon gave him a look.

So it was frankly a shock to them both when Martin was the first one to find something useful. It was a collection of journal entries, dated about five centuries ago, written in a long, spidery hand that Martin somehow felt must belong to a very old, very rich person. The paper they were scrawled on was deeply yellowed, though the library had preserved it well as it did all its texts, and the handwriting proved legible enough.

Martin, who favored journal entries anyway, finding them more interesting than historical accounts, had been flipping through the pages absentmindedly when he caught the word “angel” written several times over the course of a few pages. Upon closer inspection, he immediately stood and went in search through the winding corridors to find Jon.

They both crowded around one of Jon’s cramped, lamplit desks, and began to read the entry Martin had first taken notice of:

_Eighteenth of Fourth Moon, Year 4,091_

_It is shamefully late as I write this, but my mind will afford me no peace until I commit it all to paper. The Watcher came to me again tonight. It appeared just after my prayer, which I was, for the first time, hesitant to give. But a paladin’s duty is his sworn oath, and loath as I am to admit it, I was more afraid of the consequences of refusing to pray. Perhaps I lack principle, after all._

_No matter, because after all I did pray, and the angel did appear. It looked much the same as before, with a horrid, sickly glowing stare and a great number of wings. Is it ironic, I wonder, that such a thing, which Sees so much, should be so painful to be seen, or is it all by design? For a Watcher, it stands to reason, would above all others know the horrors of being Watched._

_The angel spoke to me again, with much the same proposal as before, with the same cloyingly sweet promises. Power, it promised, immense power, which it would share, if only I would accept its terms._

_I was cowering on the floor as it spoke, I should add. I am not too proud to admit I shook like a newborn calf in its presence—out of fear or wonder, I shall never know for certain. When one’s angel is so fearsome, I don’t suppose there is a meaningful difference between the two. It was with a trembling voice that I told it I still had my misgivings about the arrangement, and no sooner had the words left my mouth then its booming voice overtook mine, demanding to know where my loyalty lay. It asked me how many years I had been in its service, and I answered truthfully that it had been more than four decades. It asked me what honor I would have that was higher than this, and I truly had no answer for it then._

_I do not have an answer for it now. I yet love it. It is the angel I chose when I knelt in the earth and it is the angel who has protected me for all these years. I have lived for it for so long. I have, thus far, done all that was requested of me. I asked myself in my moment of rebuke and I ask myself now, what better way is there to serve it than to honor this ultimate request?_

_Following the angel’s first appearance I had spoken to Barnabas. He has been my faithful companion these many years, and I knew that he would keep all I told him in strict confidence. I told him of the angel’s offer, and he was silent for many moments before telling me that he did not believe I could trust it. I know you are a man of faith, he said to me, but do not go forward blinded by it. He told me that in all his years, he had never heard of such an exchange taking place, and that I was being deceived. At the very least, he told me, this exchange will not be an equal one. I fear that you will not survive it._

_I left his company that day shaken and unsure, as I am now. Even as I sit alone in the dying candlelight to pen this, recalling the Watcher’s terrible form and accusing words, besieged by doubt on all sides, I feel myself longing to fulfill this grand purpose._

_For now, sleep calls to me more sweetly than any otherworldly creature, but I fear what the morning may bring._

The following entry was written in a shakier hand:

_Nineteenth of Fourth Moon, Year 4,091_

_Again, tonight. Much the same as the preceding nights. Its request was unchanged, its offer just as tempting._

_Tonight it crept close to me, where I prostrated myself upon my bedroom floor, its glowing eyes so close to mine, its great, dark wings surrounding me, blocking out all candlelight and the moonlight from the windows. It asked me, again, in a mocking whisper that still aches in my ears, what higher honor could I hope to achieve, what transcendence would better suit me._

_None, I answered truthfully, but I am afraid._

_There is nothing to fear, it said. Its whisper was sweet and hateful. You will have power. You will be honored. You will be loved._

_I said nothing in reply. It left soon after, but I feel it Watching me still, and it is, as it always has been, a comfort to me, though I know it is not meant as one. Or perhaps it is, in its own sickening way._

_I am reminded of the business with the shrines, all those months back. Though my angel’s insistence on such a specific task only confused me at the time, I can see now that it was, in retrospect, merely a precursor to this. A test, of sorts, perhaps of my prowess, perhaps of my loyalty. Likely both. It must have been satisfied by my work to some degree, though at the time I was certain it was displeased. For the month that I toiled on its odd designs I sensed its frustration with my human frailty, and my necessity for time with which to travel throughout the continent in order to complete its work._

_My completion of the task at all, however clumsily I set about it, must have earned its regard. For here I now sit, giddy and fearful, the Watcher looking upon me with approval and ravenous anticipation._

_Sleep has yet not taken me, and I do not believe it will tonight. Doubt is my constant companion, but I grow weary of the dance._

The next entry was not dated, and the handwriting was uneven, the ink blotchy:

_It came tonight before I could even begin to pray. Its eye seemed to stare at me hungrily, and even though it burned my eyes to meet its gaze I found myself unable to look away. It was far more difficult to refuse this time. Barnabas’s words of warning echo in my head, but I cannot reconcile them with the words of my angel. For decades now I have devoted myself to it, and it has now finally seen my loyalty, finally begun to appreciate it. This proposal, this offer—it is, as it has told me time and again, the highest honor._

_Out of hundreds of paladins, it has chosen me to be its physical host in the mortal realm. I do not wish to refuse it._

The next entry was the last in the journal. The writing was erratic and frenzied, often difficult to parse, and gathered in the upper right corner of the page were stains from three drops of blood.

The entry read:

_It Showed me I Saw its form I Saw its promise I Saw my reason my purpose I Saw the great beautiful infinity that stretches forever within the Eye and all it Sees all it whispers all it knows all it Watches all it consumes within its black pupil the darkness of the Watcher’s patient gaze the truth of its grand shining purpose of its power all shall See all shall Watch and it shall make it so I shall make it so my purpose shall be one with its purpose at last it will love me consume me I will be it and it will be I and we shall be one and we shall walk together forward into the bright black shining pupil and all will be ours and Seen and Watched from atop the tower the gilded shining black beacon of Sight and all will be Watched and all will be ours and all will be known and all will be Seen and all will be_

And then, with a long trail of ink that bled across to the edge of the page, the writing stopped.

* * *

“Alright. Well, hello, Gerry,” Tim said, cagily, pointedly not shaking the outstretched, tattooed hand. “Can we _help_ you with something?”

The man—Gerry—laughed. Despite his ominous appearance, he was rather mild-mannered, and didn’t seem at all offended by Tim’s suspicion as he put down his hand. He had sort of an easy rakishness about him that Sasha wasn’t yet sure she liked. “I’m not the one looking for help, here,” Gerry said. He gestured at the book Tim still held in his hands. “You’re the ones poring through academic records half a millennium old.”

Sasha’s mouth fell open. “How did you . . . were you spying on us?”

“Comes with the territory,” Gerry said, then smiled again, as though he’d made a joke, before his expression turned serious again. “I mean, yes, I was, technically. I . . . suppose you could say I overheard you. I work here, in the Archives, you see. I’m an Assistant. And I know I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, can you?” Tim crossed his arms, keeping the book out of Gerry’s sight. “And what are we looking for, then?”

Gerry cocked his head at him, curiously. “To be honest, I don’t think _you_ fully know what you’re looking for, at this point. But you came here looking for answers about the western forest, yeah?”

“. . . We did,” Sasha admitted.

“And you’ve just discovered that there’s an angel who doesn’t exist, right?”

“I—one man’s account doesn’t mean anything,” Sasha said. She pointed at the crest of the Angel of Curiosity stitched into her tunic. “I’m a paladin. I know the pantheon as well as the back of my hand. I’ve been to dozens of ceremonies. I’ve _seen_ the shrines, in the Capitol and the northern kingdoms. There is and never has been an Angel of the Hunt.”

“Now,” Gerry said, pointing a finger at her, albeit inoffensively, “that’s interesting that you bring up the shrines. Because I believe that those are very much related to your search.”

“Look,” Tim said, “all we’re looking for is information about something weird and _horrible_ that happened to us a few days ago, and almost killed our friend—who is sort of _missing_ now, by the way, which is a whole other thing—” He sighed. “Anyway. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of it before we have to meet with the big man upstairs. So if you can help us with _that_ , we would be extremely—”

“Wait.” Gerry held out a hand. “The big man upstairs? You . . . you work for Elias?”

“We’re hired mercs,” Sasha cut in, and quickly explained their situation, and what had happened to them at the western forest. She left out, carefully, the parts about Martin’s angel appearing out of thin air and rescuing him at the last moment.

When she was done, Gerry looked pensive, and appropriately concerned. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he muttered softly to himself, “Hm. Interesting.”

“What does that mean?” said Sasha, growing impatient. “What do you know?”

Gerry looked up at her, shaking his head. “Not everything. Actually, I know very little, at this point. But . . . I’ll tell you what I do know.” He gave a small smile. “That is, if you can find it in yourselves to trust me.”

Tim looked at Sasha. In that moment, she could tell exactly what he was thinking: _I don’t know if I like this guy, but right now he seems like he can make our lives at least a hundred times easier._

Sasha gave Tim a small nod. He smiled at her, gratefully. Then, to Gerry, he said, “First, can I just ask . . . why are you doing this? Why are you helping us?”

Gerry smiled lopsidedly. “Well, to be honest, my dear whoever-you-people-are . . .”

“Tim.”

“Sasha.”

“My dear Tim and Sasha.” He gave a small bow, and somehow to Sasha, it felt genuine. “I may not have been . . . entirely honest with you earlier. Because, as it turns out, I do need your help.”

“What do you mean?” said Tim.

Gerry pointed at him. “That book you have in your hands? You shouldn’t have been able to find it. Technically, it shouldn’t exist. At least, not anymore. And yet it does.” Gerry shrugged, but there was a buzzing energy behind his casual veneer, one that Sasha knew intimately: the irresistible pull of a thread that needed to be followed. “And I want to find out why.”

* * *

Martin sat back in the high-backed armchair, one hand still on the desk before him, inches from the journal. He stared at the worn pages, at the chaotic scribbles of ink that bled across them, a deep black against sickly, ancient yellow, and the ellipsis of red above it all.

Jon was utterly still where he stood at Martin’s right, his face obscured, for the moment, by the high wings of the armchair.

Wordlessly, Martin reached out and turned the pages back again, and silently read them over once, twice, three more times. He couldn’t tell if Jon was reading along.

After his fourth reread, Martin finally stopped, and let out a breath. A million thoughts were running through his head, not the least of which was, _Who was this thing that was calling itself the Watcher?_ It seemed to be an angel of some kind, but Martin had never heard of an Angel of Watching, or Seeing, or anything like that.

He sat forward in the chair again, craning his neck to look up at Jon’s face. His gaze was fixated on the journal, his expression pinched with worry and puzzlement. Though he made no other movement, Martin saw that his hand was clutching the chair’s armrest like a vice.

Martin placed his hand on top of his, and squeezed gently. At once, Jon’s gaze swung to meet his. “I—” Jon said, his voice loud and echoing in the still air, then stopped, and started again, more measured: “This is . . . troubling.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighed. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I mean—if this means what I think it means—”

“Possession?” Martin offered. “Angelic possession?”

Jon shook his head, but his expression was doubtful, and his voice was quiet. “That isn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible.”

Martin managed a smile. “We keep running into that particular problem, don’t we.”

To his surprise, the lame attempt at a joke seemed to break through Jon’s somber expression for a moment, and he lifted an eyebrow at Martin in mock reproach. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” he said, dryly, and under his hand, Martin felt Jon’s grip on the armrest loosen.

Jon reached out with his other hand to carefully close the journal. “We ought to continue our research,” he said, his voice measured and businesslike. “A single primary source never convinced anyone.”

“Wait a moment,” Martin said, opening the journal again to its first page. “We should at least find out _who_ our source is.”

The journal was unsigned, and it took several minutes for them to find the name of the person it belonged to, embedded somewhere in the recounting of a conversation the writer had had with an acquaintance. Though it was written in the same spidery handwriting as the rest of the journal, the name seemed to leap unmistakably from the page, as though it could belong to no one else:

_Jonah Magnus_

As they returned to the library shelves, armed with a new lead, Martin noticed Jon’s demeanor was less enthusiastic than before, his manner anxious. Gently, he took hold of Jon’s arm, stopping him, and turned to face him.

“Martin?” Jon said, surprised.

“Are you alright?” Martin said. “I mean . . . those journal entries weren’t exactly light reading.”

Jon shook his head quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You can tell me,” Martin said, softly, and reached down to fold one of Jon’s hands in his own. There was no pulse that he could feel, but Jon’s hand was warm, and his fingers curled around Martin’s instinctively. “If you’re not fine, that is.”

“I—” Jon leaned down a bit, closer to him. For a moment, he seemed deep in thought, staring at the floor. Then his gaze snapped up again to meet Martin’s. “We—we won’t be like that, will we?” he said. His voice was very quiet, as though sharing a secret. “Like the angel and the paladin in those entries? You—you won’t be _afraid_ of m—”

He stopped short when Martin reached up to hold Jon’s face in his hands, staring directly into his eyes.

“Angel of Written Knowledge. Jon,” Martin said. “You don’t scare me.” He gave a small shake of his head. “You never have. I don’t think you could if you _tried_. You’re a _librarian_ , for goodness’ sake. It’s almost impressive, how unintimidating you are. You—”

“Yes, yes,” Jon said, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance, but unable to contain a smile. “Yes, thank you, I _get_ it.”

“Good,” said Martin. They shared a smile with easy familiarity, and Martin let his hands fall away to resume their hold on Jon’s hand. Against his back, he felt the light brush of a large, grateful wing.

“Right,” Jon said, turning back to the shelves with renewed determination. “Let’s see what else there is to find about this Jonah Magnus.”

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to check out [misterghostfrog's amazing art](https://misterghostfrog.tumblr.com/post/641880771849846784/image-id-a-drawing-of-martin-blackwood-from-the)!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Apologies to Jonny for stealing his incantation thunder after this week's episode. They're super fun to write, as it turns out.
> 
> Also, bonus points if you can guess who the ecologist was named after!


End file.
